


we may be the first to fall

by psyduckie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Prostate Massage, Prostate Orgasm, felix "i hate feelings" fraldarius, felix "sad dick" fraldarius, i'm a little late to the party but i brought some porn, maybe more feelings than porn, stupid childhood promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23089297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyduckie/pseuds/psyduckie
Summary: It’s not that he has anything against the idea of a quick, sloppy, life-affirming handjob up against some filthy bloodstained wall.This thing they’ve been doing – this thing made up of blowjobs in the dark before the rest of the monastery’s awake, this thing that involves Sylvain sneaking out of Felix’s room before dawn while Felix pretends to be asleep – it’s been going on long enough for him to put the pattern together, okay?He's not stupid. Battles make Sylvain horny.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 57
Kudos: 407





	we may be the first to fall

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: some canon-typical violence and injury. Also, there's a part near the beginning where Felix incorrectly interprets a situation as sexual in nature (and therefore as having some consent issues.) Also: this is not how you treat shock. In case you were wondering.
> 
> Title from Meet Me On the Battlefield, by SVRCINA.
> 
> Beta'd by buckstiel, who dragged me into this hellpit. (Thanks! This is your fault!!)

The worst is always after. 

Right after, when the adrenaline drains out of his body and leaves him exhausted down to his bones. A moment ago he was thrumming with energy, a wild coil stretching through his heart to his arms and straight out into his sword. 

But the moment the blade snapped into its sheath, that tightness uncoiled. Now he’s standing in a field of bodies and he doesn’t know where to put his hands. 

His skin is still buzzing, but it’s buzzing with something different now — a low, tired noise that runs right through him, leaving him numb. That’s why he barely feels it when a hand closes around his wrist. Between the numbness and the thick leather of his gloves, he can’t feel a damned thing. 

There are bodies to move, now. Graves to dig, or – or pyres to build. There have been so many of them, the last few battles, that they’ve had to resort to burning them just to get rid of them before they started to rot. Before the animals got to them and made a bigger mess. 

Felix looks down, unblinking, at the armored gauntlet swallowing up his hand. Uses his other hand to push his hair out of his face, leaving a wet smudge across his forehead. Blood. Not his. Someone else’s. He wants to sit down. He wants to clean his sword. Should have cleaned it before he put it away, but he hadn’t been thinking. He still isn’t thinking. 

It’s a beautiful blade, even covered in blood and bits of gore. This was his first time using it in a real battle, and it always catches him by surprise, how unprepared he is despite the hours of training. It’s impossible to train for the precise way a new blade will slide into muscle and bone. Impossible to practice the way the shape of a new hilt will feel when the blood begins to dry and grow sticky beneath his hand. 

He stares at the hand around his wrist, its unforgiving metal clenched tight enough to bruise. He can’t even feel it.

“What?” he says, because Sylvain is looking at him with something in his eyes that sets Felix’s teeth on edge. It’s possible Sylvain has been saying something. It’s possible Felix missed it over the roar of blood rushing in his ears. 

“I said, where are you hurt?”

What?

“I’m not.” It’s true. Miracle of miracles, he’s managed to get out without a scratch. It was close.

“Yeah, you are.” 

It’s weird to see Sylvain like this, standing on the ground in his full suit of armor. Where’s his horse? During a battle like this, he never goes anywhere without his giant hellbeast. 

Except the battle is over. Right. 

Sylvain is still _looking_ at him. Waiting. “I’m really not.” 

“I saw, you asshole.” 

Felix just stares at him. 

“Okay,” Sylvain mutters, more to himself than to Felix. “Fine.” 

Then he’s pulling, dragging Felix by the hand like a child, and Felix is too dazed to do anything about it until he’s already moving. 

“Wait,” he says, because he knows where this is going. Sylvain is fine and he is fine, but Sylvain has probably had to grapple with the concept of his own mortality sometime since Felix saw him this morning. Sylvain hates acknowledging his own mortality. Sylvain will do just about anything, most days, to avoid acknowledging his own mortality. “Sylvain, wait.” 

Because it’s not that he has anything against the idea of a quick, sloppy, life-affirming handjob up against some filthy bloodstained wall. This thing they’ve been doing – this nebulous thing made up of blowjobs in the dark before the rest of the monastery’s awake, this thing that involves Sylvain sneaking out of Felix’s room before dawn while Felix pretends to be asleep – it’s been going on long enough for him to put the pattern together, okay? He's not stupid. Battles make Sylvain horny. 

Felix is fine with that. It’s just that today – right now – he doesn’t think he’s going to be the kind of company Sylvain wants. Normally, just the biting threat of bruises around his wrist is enough to get him half-hard in his pants, but he’s staring down at his wrist, clasped hard in Sylvain’s hand, and it’s like it’s not even attached to him. He is watching from outside his body while Sylvain drags him away to work off some excess adrenaline. But Felix has nothing left to work off. 

He can see it unfolding in his head: Sylvain pushing a hand into his pants to find him tired and limp. Sylvain getting to his knees and looking up at him through a thick fringe of eyelashes, a favorite trick of his. Sylvain, disappointed when his best efforts have no effect. Disappointed with _him_. 

“Sylvain,” he tries again, louder this time, reaching forward to try to pry the fingers away from his wrist. “Wait a minute.” 

But Sylvain doesn’t even turn to look at him, just pulls him along a little faster, says, “Shut up, Felix.” 

The outrage hits him so fast it leaves him with his mouth agape, unable to respond. 

By the time Sylvain turns him around and presses him back against some semi-secluded wall, Felix is furious. 

So when Sylvain goes for the clasps on his coat, he gets both hands out in front of him and shoves as hard as he can. _That_ , at least, he can feel – the metal encasing Sylvain’s chest, the blood on its surface dried down to a tacky film that clings to the leather of Felix's gloves. He can feel the way the metal holds firm beneath his hands, this shell protecting the tender skin and muscle beneath. Felix knows firsthand how easily a good blade will slice through it all. Just like carving meat.

All the times he’s fought. All the times he’s killed, and now, for the first time, he thinks he might be sick. 

He shoves again, pushing against Sylvain and the weight of his armor and the blood on his own hands. This time, Sylvain rocks back on his heels, putting just enough space between them for Felix to breathe. 

Just enough space for Sylvain to unbuckle his gauntlets, letting them fall to the stone floor with a clang that rattles through Felix’s bones. Then he’s back, and so are his hands, and without the cumbersome metal in the way he makes short work of the clasps on Felix’s coat. He works the thin linen shirt up and out of his pants and then his hands are there, fever-hot against bare skin. 

Felix can feel that, too.

“I can’t,” he says, dropping his hands to his sides, because he knows what Sylvain is after but he’s exhausted. Because his legs feel so loose that if Sylvain drops to his knees right now Felix might just drop along with him. Because he doesn’t want to see Sylvain look at him, confused and frustrated. Disappointed. 

“Can’t what?” Sylvain says, and his face is dark and forbidding but his voice is carefully casual in that way that means he’s well and truly pissed. “Can’t stand up on your own, or can't shut up and let someone help you?” 

Neither, but — “What?” 

“I saw you,” Sylvain repeats, his hand scrabbling over Felix’s side until he touches on something that makes them both wince. 

Oh. 

Fuck. 

Sylvain pushes Felix’s shirt up to his chest, exposing his stomach and his ribs and the long gash still sluggishly oozing blood down his side. 

Felix stares down at it, frozen. 

“I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I’d notice?” Sylvain huffs out something that could be a laugh, if any of this were remotely funny. “You’re such a jerk.” 

_I didn’t think any of it was my blood_ , Felix thinks, still staring down at himself. He couldn’t feel it. Didn’t even notice the cut in his coat. Now that he thinks about it, he can kind of remember the tip of a lance sliding through wool and leather. Kind of. It’s been a long day. 

Sylvain leans his forehead down to rest heavily on the top of Felix’s head, leaving him stuck staring down at his own belly button. “I’m okay,” he says, less because it’s true and more because he thinks Sylvain needs to hear it. 

“Who was it?”

“Aegir.” He remembers now. “I — I killed him.” 

Sylvain shifts above him, and that’s – yes, that’s lips pressing against the top of his head. 

“Cut it out,” he snaps, jerking away. His hair is covered in sweat and other people’s blood. “That’s disgusting.” 

Sylvain just waits for him to settle, damn him, then leans forward again to press his lips firmly back to Felix’s hair. He’s making a point. Goddess knows what it is, but he’s got that look on his face that says he’s gonna make it. 

Right after the battle, before Felix even realized the battle was done, Dorothea had found Aegir’s body, and Felix – Felix couldn’t watch that. Aegir and Dorothea used to be friends, he remembers. Felix didn’t know him that well, mostly just knew his name and his frankly concerning love of horses. She called him Ferdie. 

Slowly, Sylvain brings his other hand up to Felix’s uninjured side. Runs it up and down his skin. There’s something wrong with the way his hand is moving. It’s too careful, too slow. Sylvain has touched him more intimately than this. There’s no reason to be this careful. He opens his mouth to tell him to quit screwing around, either do something or don't. 

Then Sylvain pulls back and says, “Are you hurt anywhere else?” and Felix gets it. 

He shakes his head. Then, at the look Sylvain gives him: “Fuck off.” 

Sylvain sighs and takes a step back, just long enough to push the coat off Felix’s shoulders and pull his shirt up and over his head. “You don’t even know, do you,” he says, and Felix can’t really deny that, so he just stays quiet. Sylvain’s hands are unsteady as he runs them over every inch of Felix’s chest, checking for cuts and bruises and goddess knows what else. 

Felix tips his head back against the stone wall and just lets him, just shuts his eyes against the harsh sunlight and listens to the whisper of Sylvain’s skin brushing, tentative and trembling, over his own. 

Those hands are usually confident and strong, either pressing firmly into skin or skating over it, deliberately teasing. Everything he does is controlled, engineered to get a reaction. And he’s good at it, is the thing, so it’s not as though Felix minds. 

Sylvain’s hands don’t _shake_ like this. Not since the first time he followed Felix to his room after one of their victory feasts, hand going awkwardly to the back of his neck, and asked whether he wanted some company. That first time had been strange and slow and Sylvain’s hands had shaken as he carefully opened Felix up, as he held Felix down by the wrists and stroked his hair back from his face. Everything else that was going on around and inside him, and the thing Felix remembers the most is the way Sylvain's hands trembled where they wrapped around his thighs, his wrists, his cock. What those trembling hands might mean. 

Later, Sylvain sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Felix, and told him nothing had to change if Felix didn’t want it to. That this didn’t have to mean anything more than blowing off some steam, if that’s all he wanted. 

Even with Sylvain’s back turned, Felix could see the lies. They were written in the tense line of his spine, the way he draped his hands carefully over his knees to keep them still. With anyone else, Sylvain’s a pretty good liar, but Felix always knows. 

Now, fingertips trembling, Sylvain buries his face in the crook of Felix’s neck and breathes in deep. His hands finally come to a stop over his ribcage. Felix brings his own hands up to cover them, to press them hard into his skin and still their incessant shivering. “I’m fine,” he says again. 

“I saw you.” Sylvain speaks into the space where neck meets shoulder, and Felix can feel the warm, damp breath ghosting over his neck. The buzzing in his veins is quieter now that he can focus on Sylvain's hands, hot against his skin. “I saw you standing there, right after. Covered in blood. I thought—” 

Felix presses Sylvain’s hands a little harder into his ribs, as though he can push them all the way through to his heart, just so Sylvain can feel it beating. 

“I thought — goddess, Felix —” 

“You thought I’d let him beat me?” A laughable idea. Now that it’s over, he can’t stop seeing it – Aegir’s broken body lying splayed out on cold stone, fiery hair streaming out around him, framed in a growing pool of blood — but in the moment, he hadn’t even hesitated. Maybe he would have, if they’d known each other better. Maybe he would have, if they’d been friends. 

He knows better, but it’s a nice thought. 

“You’re an idiot,” he tells Sylvain, and it comes out warmer than he meant it to. 

Ah, whatever. He brings a hand up to bury it in red hair. Sylvain is smart enough not to comment. 

“Yeah, well, it’s a good thing you didn’t.” Sylvain drops a kiss to Felix’s bare shoulder, but he doesn’t seem inclined to push this any further, seems content to let Felix run a hand through his sweaty, grimy hair. Truly disgusting. “Wasn’t looking forward to falling on my own lance.” 

Felix’s hand stills. 

Sylvain lifts his head a little, like he’s trying to push it into Felix’s hand. “No,” he whines, “you should keep doing that.” 

“Don’t joke about that.”

Sylvain freezes for a fraction of a second — long enough for Felix to know he can't trust whatever comes out of his mouth next — then turns a charming, crooked smile on him at full force. “Wasn’t joking,” he says. “You really should keep doing that.” 

“Sylvain.” 

A pause. Then, quiet, a little afraid: “Felix.” 

Felix shakes his head. Whatever Sylvain is about to say, he doesn’t want to hear it. 

And anyway, the way Sylvain says his name, it’s got Felix thinking about that first time again. A little scared, a little wary. The way his hands had trembled. That had been early in the war. There'd been a battle that morning, and Felix had nearly taken an arrow to the chest. Only the professor’s quick reflexes had saved him from a punctured lung, at best. 

And then Sylvain had followed him to his room, to run shaking hands across his chest, over and over again.

Maybe it’s not his own mortality Sylvain’s been running from. 

Felix places his hands over Sylvain’s, slowing them, feeling the heat of them against his skin, trying to turn Sylvain’s fretting into something else entirely. “Can you get your armor off?” he says. 

Sylvain blinks at the sudden change of subject. “What?” 

He's a grown man and he refuses to blush. “I want you to — like the first time.” 

Sylvain leans back, looks Felix in the eye like he’s searching for something. He must be satisfied with whatever he sees there, because after a long moment the crease between his eyebrows smooths out and he reaches up to unbuckle the metal plates on his arms. They drop to the floor along with his discarded gauntlets. He leans back in, reaches down to fit a hand between Felix’s legs, over his pants and then — he stops. 

Oh.

Right.  
  
“Felix,” he says, breath huffing out fond and amused, stirring up the dark strands that keep falling down out of his ponytail no matter how many times he pushes them back. “We don’t have to do this right now.” 

“I want to.” He’s tired enough that it has to be here, against this wall, because he’s not sure his legs will support his weight without something to lean on, and if they take the time to get back to camp, Felix is going to pass out. 

Sylvain wriggles his hand underneath Felix’s pants to find him where he’s soft and warm and tender. He gets a hand around him, pulls a few times, and it feels nice but they can both tell it’s not going anywhere. “You look like you're about to fall over,” he says, and there’s no disappointment in his face, just a goofy, sweet affection that makes Felix want to punch him. “Come on, we should get you to Manuela. You’re hurt.” 

“Stop saying that,” he snaps, and he can feel the embarrassment spreading hot across his cheeks. “I’m fine.” 

“Tonight, then.”

Felix glares. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, “we will. I just want you to feel good too, okay?” 

“It does feel good,” he says, reaching down to press Sylvain’s hand tighter around him, and he doesn’t know why this is so important to him all of a sudden, only that it _is_. Knows he can’t go back to that battlefield without this, can’t watch Dorothea weep over her dead friend without knowing that Sylvain, at least, forgives him for what he did today. 

He wants to feel Sylvain, warm and careful and kind. Wants to feel him like that first time all over again, knowing what those trembling hands mean. 

But he’s not gonna beg for it. He’d sooner throw himself off the top of the goddess tower. “Look,” he says instead, “if you don’t want to—”

“Hey now,” Sylvain says, because he’s still Sylvain. Felix has never, ever known him to turn down whatever’s on offer, not when it’s him offering. “Hang on, I didn’t say that.” 

Predictable.

Except then Sylvain goes off-script. He eases his hand out of Felix’s pants, uses his other to turn Felix’s face up, and presses their foreheads together for a moment. “Is that what you need?” he asks, pulling back just enough to try to catch Felix’s eye. “Like the first time?” 

_Need_ feels like such a strong word, but he meets Sylvain’s eyes and nods.

“Okay.” Sylvan gathers him into his arms, pulling him close to murmur the rest into his filthy hair. “Okay. Anything you need, sweetheart. Always.” And Felix has no idea what to say to that, so he just leans back a little and turns his face up. 

Sylvain knows what he’s angling for and meets him halfway, in something that starts pretty chaste – just a dry press of closed, chapped lips – and ends with Felix’s wrists pressed against the wall, the rough stone scraping into the skin of his back while Sylvain’s tongue glides over his, gentle and wicked in equal measure. 

He shifts a little against the wall, uncomfortable, and Sylvain pulls back, his breath coming a little harder now. He says, “Turn around for me, sweetheart,” and, _oh_ , Felix should have known, should have smacked him or snapped at him the first time, but it’s too late now. He’s lost his chance to nip this _sweetheart_ thing in the bud; once Sylvain gets something into his head, there’s no getting it out again. Felix groans, and it’s definitely a complaint about the new endearment and not a reaction to the way Sylvain’s hands dig into his hip bones and push him around until he’s facing the wall. He presses his hands flat against the rough surface. Sylvain gets to work on his trousers, pulls them down until Felix can step out of it all. 

Then Sylvain is running callused hands over everything he can reach, and Felix does not have time for this. He wants to sleep. He wants to scream. He wants to shake off the last of this buzzing under his skin. “Hurry up,” he says, glaring at Sylvain over his shoulder. 

Sylvain just chuckles and drops a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the top of Felix’s spine. Ugh. Felix can feel the sweat dried down to a cold film on his skin, but Sylvain licks it away like it’s nothing, like it’s not _filthy_. Leans down to lick a long, scalding stripe from the base of his spine up to the base of his neck. 

A deep shiver runs up his spine, following that same rapidly-cooling stripe. 

Sylvain notices. Felix can feel his smile pressed warm against the back of his neck. It’s annoying. “What’s taking so long,” he says, pressing himself back against Sylvain, who’s still trapped in his armor and probably can’t feel him. He’s trying to make a point. 

“We can’t right now,” Sylvain whispers against the back of his neck. “I don’t have anything.” 

"I don't care," Felix growls, frustrated, and Sylvain runs a hand down his uninjured side, shushing him. Soothing him, like he’d soothe his infernal beast. “Stop that. I am not your horse,” he says. “I hate your horse.” Ugh. Everything is annoying him today. 

“Come on,” Sylvain says, and his hand doesn’t stop its gentle petting. Sylvain is laughing at him, damn it. “Marlene’s my little sweetheart.” 

_I’m your sweetheart_ , Felix thinks, and then bites down on his own tongue as punishment.

He hears a metallic clank behind him and he realizes Sylvain is kneeling down behind him. “I'm not gonna hurt you like that,” he says, and Felix feels an overwhelming combination of relief and disappointment, “but I think I can still give you what you need. You just have to trust me.” 

Sylvain is a fucking idiot. Of course Felix trusts him. He folds his arms against the stone in front of him, leaning on his forearms. Takes a deep breath and relaxes into it as much as he can. 

Sylvain hums a pleased little noise against the back of Felix’s thigh. “Let me know if you don’t like it.” 

Then Felix feels something warm and wet swiping up the crease of his ass. He can't help it: he yelps and pulls away. “Sylvain!” He hasn’t bathed. He’s spent the whole day sweating and fighting and this is— this is disgusting. This should be disgusting. 

Sylvain gives him a second to get over his shock, then grabs firm hold of his hips and drags them back into position. He leans in, breath hot against Felix, and waits another few seconds for him to pull away again, to tell him to stop. 

Felix doesn’t.

He just—he’s too tired to do anything but melt into it, just lets Sylvain do whatever he wants. It feels good, once he gets over the wet, sloppy _strangeness_ of it. Maybe if he were hard it would feel good in a different way, but right now it’s just… soothing. Comfortable. It’s a weird way to think about a tongue in his ass, but Sylvain isn’t reaching around to fondle his dick, so he guesses it’s okay that it’s not getting him hard. He just lets it relax him, lets the tension bleed out of his spine.

After a minute — an hour? He has no idea — Sylvain sits back, gently scrapes his teeth across the place where Felix’s ass meets his thigh. Felix’s gasp is a small, quiet thing; he doesn’t even lift his head from where it’s pillowed on his crossed arms. Doesn’t look up when he feels a spit-slick finger work its way into him, then a second, not trying to prepare him for something bigger, not trying to tease him. Just… there. Pressing around, looking for — 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Felix remembers this from that careful, shaking first time. That time when Sylvain worked himself into Felix, held himself over him on unsteady arms, looked into Felix’s eyes with something terrifyingly _open_ until Felix had to turn his face away, his entire body shivering, unable to deal with the intensity of it. 

They hadn't talked about that part of it, after, and Sylvain never asked for it again. 

Now Felix’s face is turned downwards into his arms where Sylvain can’t see him, but everything else feels the same. Fingers brush over that spot and he squirms, whimpering. Everything feels fragile. _Felix_ feels fragile, _sounds_ fragile, can hear the nosies falling out of his own mouth but is powerless to stop them. He’s going to shake apart if Sylvain doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want Sylvain to stop. He can feel himself building toward something, but when he looks down, he’s still just hanging there, soft and small. “I can’t,” he says, between gasps, and he means, _I can’t come_. He means, _I can’t take this._ He means, _I can’t listen to you talk about falling on your own lance._

“Shhhh,” Sylvan says, dotting gentle kisses onto the backs of his thighs. “Just relax, sweetheart.”

It’s the exact tone of voice he uses with Marlene when she’s spooked. Soothing. Unthreatening. This is how Sylvain talks to wild creatures he wants to trust him. 

Felix doesn’t hate Marlene, wishes he could take it back. Feels bad for even thinking it. He’s watched the massive black mare move Sylvain out of harm’s way more times than he can count. He sneaks into the stables, sometimes, when he knows Sylvain isn’t around. He sneaks in to feed her apples from a flat hand, still a little nervous at the sight of her teeth. 

Ferdinand laughed at him once, such a long time ago, when he caught Felix trying to feed the horses the way he might feed a stray cat. Not mocking him, just — just bright and sunny and happy to have someone to teach. Showed him how to hold his hand flat to avoid being bitten, how to pet down the mare’s velvet nose, how to —

Felix's vision is blurry.

“Shhhhh,” Sylvain says again, “Just let me.” 

So Felix does. Lets Sylvain push him, lets him talk to him and pet him like a beast in need of gentling. Lets him press, over and over, rhythmic and relentless, until he feels it wash over his entire body like a wave pulling him under, warm and overwhelming. Until he hears the splattering of something on the ground at his feet, feels his knees buckle beneath him and his arms scrape against the wall as he slides down. 

Then Sylvain’s hands are under his arms, careful to avoid the gash in his side, and then he’s being cradled against a hard, armored chest. “Ugh,” he says, because it’s not exactly comfortable, but Sylvain doesn’t seem like he’s about to let him go, and Felix is having a hard time forming other words. 

Sylvain reaches up to brush away the wetness on his cheeks, and that had better be his clean hand or else Felix is going to cut it off as soon as he can move again. 

“You’re okay,” Sylvain is saying, over and over. “Sweetheart, you’re okay.” 

“Don’t call me that,” says Felix, and Sylvain’s face splits into a relieved grin. 

It takes a while for Felix to come back to himself enough to realize that he’s lying on his own coat, that he’s wearing his shirt again. He pulls at the linen, confused. 

“You were shivering,” Sylvain says, by way of explanation. “We should really get that cut looked at.” 

Felix _is_ cold, now that he’s thinking about it. The sun hasn’t gone down, but the sky has definitely shifted over into evening, and the temperature with it. “I’m okay,” he says, and this time it feels true. 

“I know,” Sylvain answers, his grin turning smug. “You’re probably feeling pretty great right now.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Sylvain tilts his head back and laughs, easy and open, and Felix feels his heart turn over in his chest. 

So fucking annoying.

He must be staring, because Sylvain looks back down at him, still grinning, and says, “What?” 

Felix eyes catch on a spot of blood, long dried onto the armor at Sylvain’s shoulder. That shell, protecting such vulnerable softness underneath. “You wouldn’t really do it,” he says. “Right?”

Sylvain’s grin freezes in place.

He should let it go. His eyelids are heavy and his limbs are loose, more relaxed than he can ever remember feeling. He should let Sylvain help him back. He should drop this. But he just — he can’t leave it alone. “Promise me,” he says. “If something happens to me. Promise me you won’t.” 

“Felix—”

He’s going to refuse. He never refuses Felix anything, but he’s going to refuse him this.

 _No._  
  
“Anything,” Felix says, and it’s painful to meet his eyes but he makes himself do it. “You said. Anything I need.” 

There’s a long silence while he watches Sylvain struggle. Felix won’t help him. He could. He could take it back, change the subject, save Sylvain from having to say anything. But he's not going to. He’ll get this promise out of him any way it takes.

Finally: “Come on. It was just a stupid joke, Felix.” His hand, fingering through the sweaty strands of Felix’s hair. His mouth, an unhappy slash across his face. “I wouldn’t do it. I promise.” 

Felix squeezes his eyes shut, his heart clenching in his chest. 

Above them, vultures have begun circling the battlefield. 

Sylvain has gotten better at it. But Felix always knows when he’s lying. 


End file.
